GIFT   OF 
OB. 


RANCIS'  B,SUMN 
THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


HENRY  WADSWOUTH  LONGFELLOW 


BOSTON 
JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 

1875 


COFTXIGHT,  1*75. 

BY  HJLMT  WADSWOITH  LOXGJTLLOI 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


C  O  X  T  E  X  T  5 . 


THE  MASQUE   OF   PANDORA.  : 

I.    THE  WORKSHOP  or  HEPHJESICS    ...  3 

II.    OLYTCFUS - 

III.     TOWEE  OF  PEOJUTHEIS  O3T  MOUTT  CAUCASUS  10 

IT.    THE  AIE 19 

V.    THE  HOUSE  OP  EPTMETHEUS     ...  21 

VI.    Lv  THE  GAEDEX 28 

VII.    THE  HOUSE  or  Erummis     ...  42 

VIII.    Lx  THE  GAEDES 48 

THE   HANGING   OF   THE   CRANE                            .  w 
MORrmU   SAirTAMTS          .... 

BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE.    FLIGHT  THE  Form 

CHAELIS  SOOTEE 95 

TEAVEIS  IT  THE  FTEESIDE       .... 

CADKSABEIA 101 

M05TE  CASSDTO  104 


iv  CONTENTS. 

AMALFI 110 

THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  .        .        .        .  11C 

BELISARIUS 119 

SONGO  RIVER 123 

A   BOOK   OF   SONNETS. 

THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE 129 

CHAUCER  .......  134 

SHAKESPEARE 135 

MILTON !3g 

KEATS  •                                  137 

THE  GALAXY    . 135 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA      .        '.         .         .         .  139 

A  SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA  .         .         .         .  140 

THE  TIDES   ,.'..'.         .         .         .         .  141 

A  SHADOW        .        ...        .        .        .  143 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE 143 

SLEEP .        .  144 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE  .         .         .         .145 

IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE  140 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 
I. 

THE  WORKSHOP   OF   HEPtLESTUS. 

IIEPILESTUS,  standing  before  the  statue  of  Pandora. 

NOT  fashioned  out  of  gold,,  like  Hera's  throne, 
Nor  forged  of  iron  like  the  thunderbolts 
Of  Zeus  omnipotent,,  or  other  works 
Wrought  by  my  hands  at  Lemnos  or  Olympus, 
But  moulded  in  soft  clay,  that  unresisting 
Yields  itself  to  the  touch,  this  lovely  form 
Before  me  stands  perfect  in  every  part. 
Not  Aphrodite's  self  appeared  more  fair, 
When  first  upwafted  by  caressing  winds 
She  came  to  high  Olympus,  and  the  gods 


4  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

Paid  homage  to  her  beauty.     Thus  her  hair 
Was  cinctured;  thus  her  floating  drapery 
Was  like  a  cloud  about  her,  and  her  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  sunshine  and  the  sea. 

THE   VOICE   OF   ZEUS. 

Is  thy  work  done,  Hephaestus? 

HEPHAESTUS. 

It  is  finished ! 

THE    VOICE. 

Not  finished  till  I  breathe  the  breath  of  life 
Into  her  nostrils,  and  she  moves  and  speaks. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Will  she  become  immortal  like  ourselves  ? 

THE   VOICE. 

The  form  that  thou  hast  fashioned  out  of  clay 
Is  of  the  earth  and  mortal;    but  the  spirit, 


THE   WORKSHOP  OF  HEPHAESTUS.  5 

The  life,  the  exhalation  of  my  breath, 

Is  of  diviner  essence  and  immortal. 

The  gods  shall  shower  on  her  their  benefactions, 

She  shall  possess  all  gifts  :    the  gift  of  song, 

The  gift  of  eloquence,  the  gift  of  beauty, 

The  fascination  and  the  nameless  charm 

That  shall  lead  all  men  captive. 

IIEPH^STUS. 

"Wherefore  ?   wherefore  ? 

A  wind  shakes  the  house. 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind 

Through  all  the  halls  and  chambers  of  my  house ! 

Her  parted  lips  inhale  it,  and  her  bosom 

Heaves  with  the  inspiration.     As  a  reed 

Beside  a  river  in  the  rippling  current 

Bends  to  and  fro,  she  bows  or  lifts  her  head. 

She  gazes  round  about  as  if  amazed; 

She  is  alive  ;  she  breathes,  but  yet  she  speaks  not ! 

Pandora  descends  from  the  pedestal. 


5  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  GRACES. 
AGLAIA. 

In  the  workshop  of  Hephaestus 

What  is  this  I  see? 
Have  the  Gods  to  four  increased  us 

Who  were  only  three  ? 
Beautiful  in  form  and  feature,, 

Lovely  as  the  day,, 
Can  there  be  so  fair  a  creature 

Formed  of  common  clay  ? 

THALIA. 

O  sweet,  pale  face  !     O  lovely  eyes  of  azure, 
Clear  as  the  waters  of  a  brook  that  run 
Limpid  and  laughing  in  the  summer  sun  ! 
O  golden  hair  that  like  a  miser's  treasure 

In  its  abundance  overflows  the  measure  ! 
O  graceful  form,  that  cloudlike  floatest  on 
With  the  soft,  undulating  gait  of  one 
Who  inoveth  as  if  motion  were  a  pleasure  ! 


THE   WORKSHOP  OF  HEPHAESTUS.  7 

By  what  name  shall  I  call  thee  ?  Nymph  or  Muse, 
Callirrhoe  or  Urania  ?     Some  sweet  name 
Whose  every  syllable  is  a  caress 

Would  best  befit  thee ;   but  I  cannot  choose,, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  choose ;    for  still  the  same, 
Nameless  or  named,  will  be  thy  loveliness. 

EUPIIROSYNE. 

Dowered  with  all  celestial  gifts, 

Skilled  in  every  art 
That  ennobles  and  uplifts 

And  delights  the  heart, 
Fair  on  earth  shall  be  thy  fame 

As  thy  face  is  fair, 
And  Pandora  be  the  name 

Thou  henceforth  shalt  bear. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


II. 

OLYMPUS. 

HERMES,  putting  on  his  sandals. 

MUCH  must  he  toil  who  serves  the  Immortal  Gods, 
And  I,  who  am  their  herald,  most  of  all. 
No  rest  have  I,  nor  respite.     I  no  sooner 
Unclasp  the  winged  sandals  from  my  feet, 
Than  I  again  must  clasp  them,  and  depart 
Upon  some  foolish  errand.     But  to-day 
The  errand  is  not  foolish.     Never  yet 
With  greater  joy  did  I  obey  the  summons 
That  sends  me  earthward.      I  will  fly  so  swiftly 
That  my  caduceus  in  the  whistling  air 
Shall  make  a  sound  like  the  Pandscan  pipes, 
Cheating  the  shepherds;   for  to-day  I  go, 
Commissioned  by  high-thundering  Zeus,  to  lead 


OLYMPUS. 


A  maiden  to  Prometheus,  in  his  tower, 
And  by  my  cunning  arguments  persuade  him 
To  marry  her.     What  mischief  lies  concealed 
In  this  design  I  know  not ;    but  I  know 
Who  thinks  of  marrying  hath  already  taken 
One  step  upon  the  road  to  penitence. 
Such  embassies  delight  me.     Forth  I  launch 
On  the  sustaining  air,  nor  fear  to  fall 
Like  Icarus,  nor  swerve  aside  like  him 
Who  drove  amiss  Hyperion's  fiery  steeds. 
I  sink,  I  fly  !     The  yielding  element 
Folds  itself  round  about  me  like  an  arm, 
And  holds  me  as  a  mother  holds  her  child. 


10  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


III. 

TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT  CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  HEAR  the  trumpet  of  Alectryon 
Proclaim  the  dawn.     The  stars  begin  to  fade, 
And  all  the  heavens  are  full  of  prophecies 
And  evil  auguries.     Blood-red  last  night 
I  saw  great  Kronos  rise ;    the  crescent  moon 
Sank  through  the  mist,  as  if  it  were  the  scythe 
His  parricidal  hand  had  flung  far  down 
The  western  steeps.     0  ye  Immortal  Gods, 
What  evil  are  ye  plotting  and  contriving  ? 

HERMES  and  PANDORA  at  the  threshold. 

PANDORA. 

I  cannot  cross  the  threshold.     An  unseen 


TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT  CAUCASUS.        11 

And  icy  hand  repels  me.     These  blank  walls 
Oppress  me  with  their  weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful  ye  are, 

But  not  omnipotent.     Ye  cannot  fight 
Against  Necessity.     The  Fates  control  you, 
As  they  do  us,  and  so  far  we  are  equals  ! 

PANDORA. 

Motionless,  passionless,  companionless, 

He  sits  there  muttering  in  his  beard.     His  voice 

Is  like  a  river  flowing  underground ! 

HERMES. 

Prometheus,  hail ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who  calls  me  ? 

HERMES. 

It  is  I. 
Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 


12  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

PROMETHEUS. 

By  thy  winged  cap 

And  winged  heels  I  know  tliee.    Thou  art  Hermes, 
Captain  of  thieves  !    Hast  thou  again  been  stealing 
The  heifers  of  Admetus  in  the  sweet 
Meadows  of  asphodel  ?   or  Hera's  girdle  ? 
Or  the  earth-shaking  trident  of  Poseidon  ? 

HERMES. 

And  thou,  Prometheus;  say,  hast  thou  again 
Been  stealing  fire  from  Helios'  charioAvheels 
To  light  thy  furnaces  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why  comest  thou  hither 
So  early  in  the  dawn? 

HERMES. 

The  Immortal  Gods 

Know  naught  of  late  or  early.  Zeus  himself 
The  omnipotent  hath  sent  me. 


TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT  CAUCASUS.        13 
PROMETHEUS. 

Eor  what  purpose  ? 

HERMES. 

To  bring  this  maiden  to  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  mistrust 

The  Gods  and  all  their  gifts.    If  they  have  sent  her 
It  is  for  no  good  purpose. 

HERMES. 

What  disaster 
Could  she  bring  on  thy  house,  who  is  a  woman  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

The  Gods  are  not  my  friends,  nor  am  I  theirs. 
Whatever  comes  from  them,  though  in  a  shape 
As  beautiful  as  this,  is  evil  only. 
Who  art  thou  ? 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 
PANDORA. 

One  who,  though  to  thee  unknown, 
Yet  knoweth  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  shouldst  thou  know  me,  woman  ? 

PANDORA. 

Who  knoweth  not  Prometheus  the  humane  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus  the  unfortunate ;   to  whom 
Both  Gods  and  men  have  shown  themselves  un 
grateful. 

When  every  spark  was  quenched  on  every  hearth 
Throughout  the  earth,,  I  brought  to  man  the  fire 
And  all  its  ministrations.     My  reward 
Hath  been  the  rock  and  vulture. 


HERMES. 

But  the  Gods 

At  last  relent  and  pardon. 


TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT  CAUCASUS.        15 
PROMETHEUS. 

They  relent  not; 

They  pardon  not;   they  are  implacable, 
Bevengeful,  unforgiving  ! 

HERMES. 

As  a  pledge 

Of  reconciliation  they  have  sent  to  thee 
This  divine  being,  to  be  thy  companion, 
And  bring  into  thy  melancholy  house 
The  sunshine  and  the  fragrance  of  her  youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  need  them  not.     I  have  within  myself 
All  that  my  heart  desires ;    the  ideal  beauty 
Which  the  creative  faculty  of  mind 
Fashions  and  follows  in  a  thousand  shapes 
More  lovely  than  the  real.     My  own  thoughts 
Are  my  companions ;   my  designs  and  labors 
And  aspirations  are  my  only  friends. 


16  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

HERMES. 

Decide  not  rashly.     The  decision  made 
Can  never  be  recalled.     The  Gods  implore  not, 
Plead  not,  solicit  not;   they  only  offer 
Choice  and  occasion,  which  once  being  passed 
Eeturn  no  more.     Dost  thou  accept  the  gift  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No  gift  of  theirs,  in  whatsoever  shape 
It  comes  to  me,  with  whatsoever  charm 
To  fascinate  my  sense,  will  I  receive. 
Leave  me. 

PANDORA. 

Let  us  go  hence.     I  will  not  stay. 

HERMES. 

"We  leave  thee  to  thy  vacant  dreams,  and  all 
The  silence  and  the  solitude  of  thought, 
The  endless  bitterness  of  unbelief, 
The  loneliness  of  existence  without  love. 


TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON  MOUNT  CAUCASUS.        17 

CHORUS  OF  THE  FATES. 
CLOTIIO. 

How  the  Titan,  the  defiant, 
The  self-centred,  self-reliant, 
Wrapped  in  visions  and  illusions, 
Bobs  himself  of  life's  best  gifts  ! 
Till  by  all  the  storm-winds  shaken, 
By  the  blast  of  fate  overtaken, 
Hopeless,  helpless,  and  forsaken, 
In  the  mists  of  his  confusions 
To  the  reefs  of  doom  he  drifts ! 

LACHESIS. 

Sorely  tried  and  sorely  tempted, 
From  no  agonies  exempted, 
In  the  penance  of  his  trial, 
And  the  discipline  of  pain ; 
Often  by  illusions  cheated, 
Often  baffled  and  defeated 


18  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

•  In  the  tasks  to  be  completed, 

He,  by  toil  and  self-denial,, 
To  the  highest  shall  attain. 

ATE.OPOS. 

Tempt  no  more  the  noble  schemer ; 
Bear  unto  some  idle  dreamer 
This  new  toy  and  fascination, 
This  new  dalliance  and  delight ! 
To  the  garden  where  reposes 
Epimetheus  crowned  with  roses, 
To  the  door  that  never  closes 
Upon  pleasure  and  temptation, 
Bring  this  vision  of  the  night ! 


THE  AIR.  19 


IV. 
THE   AIR. 

HERMES,  returning  to 

As  lonely  as  the  tower  that  he  inhabits, 

As  firm  and  cold  as  are  the  crags  about  him, 

Prometheus  stands.     The  thunderbolts  of  Zeus 

Alone  can  move  him ;    but  the  tender  heart 

Of  EpimetbeiiSj  burning  at  white  heat, 

Hammers  and  flames  like  all  his  brother's  forges ! 

Now  as  an  arrow  from  Hyperion's  bow, 

My  errand  done,  I  fly,  I  float,  I  soar 

Into  the  air  returning  to  Olympus. 

O  joy  of  motion  !    O  delight  to  cleave 

The  infinite  realms  of  space,  the  liquid  ether, 

Through  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  cooling  cloud, 

Myself  as  light  as  sunbeam  or  as  cloud ! 


20  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

"With  one  touch  of  my  swift  and  winged  feet, 
I  spurn  the  solid  earth,  and  leave  it  rocking 
As  rocks  the  bough  from  which  a  bird  takes  win 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  21 


V. 

THE   HOUSE   OF  EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

BEAUTIFUL  apparition  !   go  not  hence ! 
Surely  thou  art  a  Goddess,  for  thy  voice 
Is  a  celestial  melody,  and  thy  form 
Self-poise'd  as  if  it  floated  on  the  air  ! 

PANPORA. 

No  Goddess  am  I,  nor  of  heavenly  birth, 
But  a  mere  woman  fashioned  out  of  clay 
And  mortal  as  the  rest. 

EPTMETIIEUS. 

Thy  face  is  fair; 

There  is  a  wonder  in  thine  azure  eyes 
That  fascinates  me.     Thy  whole  presence  seems 


22  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

A  soft  desire,,  a  breathing-  thought  of  love. 
Say,,  would  thy  star  like  Merope's  grow  dim 
If  thou  shouldst  wed  beneath  thee  ? 

PANDORA. 

Ask  me  not; 

I  cannot  answer  thee.     I  only  know 
The  Gods  have  sent  me  hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I  believe, 

And  thus  believing  am  most  fortunate. 
It  was  not  Hermes  led. thee  here,  but  Eros, 
And  swifter  than  his  arrows  were  thine  eyes 
In  wounding  me.     There  was  no  moment's  space 
Between  my  seeing  thee  and  loving  thee. 
0,  what  a  tell-tale  face  thou  hast !     Again 
I  see  the  wonder  in  thy  tender  eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They  .do  but  answer  to  the  love  in  thine, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETIIEUS.  23 

Yet  secretly  I  wonder  thou  shouldst  love  me. 
Thou  knowest  me  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps  I  know  thee  better 
Than  had  I  known  thee  longer.     Yet  it  seems 
That  I  have  always  known  thee,  and  but  now 
Have  found  thee.     Ah,  I  have  been  waiting  long. 

PANDORA. 

How  beautiful  is  this  house  !     The  atmosphere 
Breathes  rest  and  comfort,  and  the  many  chambers 
Seem  full  of  welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They  not  only  seem, 

But  truly  are.     This  dwelling  and  its  master 
Belong  to  thee. 

PANDORA. 

Here  let  me  stay  forever ! 
There  is  a  spell  upon  me. 


24  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  thyself 

Art  the  enchantress,,  and  I  feel  thy  power 
Envelop  me,  and  wrap  my  soul  and  sense 
In  an  Elysian  dream. 

« 

PANDORA. 

0,  let  me  stay. 

How  beautiful  are  all  things  round  about  me, 
Multiplied  by  the  mirrors  on  the  walls ! 
What  treasures  hast  thou  here  !    Yon  oaken  chest, 
Carven  with  figures  and  embossed  with  gold, 
Is  wonderful  to  look  upon !     What  choice 
And  precious  things  dost  thou  keep  hidden  in  it  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I  know  not.     'T  is  a  mystery. 

PANDORA. 

Hast  thou  never 
Lifted  the  lid? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  25 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  oracle  forbids. 

Safely  concealed  there  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Forever  sleeps  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
Seek  not  to  know  what  they  have  hidden  from  thee, 
Till  they  themselves  reveal  it. 

PANDORA. 

As  thou  wilt. 

EPDIETHEUS. 

Let  us  go  forth  from  this  mysterious  place. 
The  garden  walks  are  pleasant  at  this  hour; 
The  nightingales  among  the  sheltering  boughs 
Of  populous  and  many-nested  trees 
Shall  teach  me  how  to  woo  thee,  and  shall  tell  me 
By  what  resistless  charms  or  incantations 
They  won  their  mates. 

PANDORA. 
Thou  dost  not  need  a  teacher. 

They  go  out. 


26  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDES. 

What  the  Immortals 
Confide  to  thy  keeping, 
Tell  unto  no  man ; 
Waking  or  sleeping, 
Closed  be  thy  portals 
To  friend  as  to  foeman. 

Silence  conceals  it; 
The  word  that  is  spoken 
Betrays  and  reveals  it ; 
By  breath  or  by  token 
The  charm  may  be  broken. 

With  shafts  of  their  splendors 
The  Gods  unforgiving 
Pursue  the  offenders, 
The  dead  and  the  living  ! 
Fortune  forsakes  them, 
Nor  earth  shall  abide  them, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  27 

Nor  Tartarus  hide  them ; 
Swift  wrath  overtakes  them ! 

With  useless  endeavor, 
Forever,  forever, 
Is  Sisyphus  rolling 
His  stone  up  the  mountain! 
Immersed  in  the  fountain, 
Tantalus  tastes  not 
The  water  that  wastes  not ! 
Through  ages  increasing 
The  pangs  that  afflict  him, 
With  motion  unceasing 
The  wheel  of  Ixion 
Shall  torture  its  victim  ! 


28  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


VI. 

IN  THE   GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

YON  snow-white  cloud  that  sails  sublime  in  ether 
Is  but  the  sovereign  Zeus,  who  like  a  swan 
Flies  to  fair-anlded  Leda ! 

PANDORA. 

Or  perchance 

Ixion^s  cloud,,  the  shadowy  shape  of  Hera, 
That  bore  the  Centaurs. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  divine  and  human. 

CHORUS  OF  BIRDS. 

Gently  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Bocked  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  29 

Bright  with  sunshine  from  above 
Dark  with  shadow  from  below, 
Beak  to  beak  and  breast  to  breast 
In  the  cradle  of  their  nest, 
Lie  the  fledglings  of  our  love. 

ECHO. 

Love !  love ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark !   listen  !    Hear  how  sweetly  overhead 
The  feathered  flute-players  pipe  their  songs  of  love, 
And  echo  answers,  love  and  only  love. 

CHORUS  OF  BIRDS. 

Every  nutter  of  the  wing, 
Every  note  of  song  we  sing, 
Every  murmur,  every  tone, 
Is  of  love  and  love  alone. 

ECHO. 

Love  alone  ! 


30  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who  would  not  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Changed  like  Callisto  to  a  star  in  heaven? 

PANDORA. 

Ah,  who  would  love,  if  loving  she  might  be 
Like  Semele  consumed  and  burnt  to  ashes? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence  knowest  thou  these  stories  ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes  taught  me; 
He  told  me  all  the  history  of  the  Gods. 

CHORUS  OF  REEDS. 

Evermore  a  sound  shall  be 
In  the  reeds  of  Arcady, 
Evermore  a  low  lament 
Of  unrest  and  discontent, 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  31 

As  the  story  is  retold 
Of  the  nymph. so  coy  and  cold, 
Who  with  frightened  feet  outran 
The  pursuing  steps  of  Pan. 

EPIMETHBUS. 

The  pipe  of  Pan  out  of  these  reeds  is  made, 
And  when  he  plays  upon  it  to  the  shepherds 
They  pity  him,  so  mournful  is  the  sound. 
Be  thou  not  coy  and  cold  as  Syrinx  was. 

PANDOBA. 

Nor  thou  as  Pan  be  rude  and  mannerless. 

PROMETHEUS,  without. 

Ho  !     Epimetheus  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

'T  is  my  brother's  voice; 
A  sound  unwelcome  and  inopportune 


•32  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

As  was  the  braying  of  Silenus'  ass, 
Heard  in  Cybele's  garden. 

PANDORA. 

Let  me  go. 
I  would  not  be  found  here.     I  would  not  see  him, 

She  escapes  among  the  trees. 
CHORUS  OF  DRYADES. 

Haste  and  hide  thee, 

Ere  too  late, 

In  these  thickets  intricate ; 

Lest  Prometheus 

See  and  chide  thee, 

Lest  some  hurt 

Or  harm  betide  thee, 

Haste  and  hide  thee ! 

PROMETHEUS,  entering. 

Who  was  it  fled  from  here?     I  saw  a  shape 
Flitting  among  the  trees. 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  33 

EPIMETHEUS. 

It  was  Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

0  Epimetlieus  !     Is  it  then  in  vain 

That  I  have  warned  thee?     Let  me  now  implore. 

Thou  harborest  in  thy  house  a  dangerous  guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  love  they  honor  with  such  guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  would  destroy  they  first  make  mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Shall  I  refuse  the  gifts  they  send  to  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject  all  gifts  that  come  from  higher  powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such  gifts  as  this  are  not  to  be  rejected. 
2*  c 


34  THE,  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  slave  of  any  woman, 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  judge  of  any  man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  judge  thee  not ;  for  thou  art  more  than  man ; 
Thou  art  descended  from  Titanic  race, 
And  hast  a  Titan's  strength,,  and  faculties 
That  make  thee  godlike ;    and  thou  sittest  here 
Like  Heracles  spinning  Omphale^s  flax, 
And  beaten  with  her  sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother  ! 
Thou  drivest  me  to  madness  with  thy  taunts. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  me  thou  drivest  to  madness 'with  thy  follies. 
Come  with  me  to  my  tower  on  Caucasus  : 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  35 

See  there  my  forges  in  the  roaring  caverns, 
Beneficent  to  man,  and  taste  the  joy 
That  springs  from  labor.     Read  with  me  the  stars, 
And  learn  the  virtues  that  lie  hidden  in  plants, 
And  all  things  that  are  useful. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O  my  brother  ! 

I  am  not  as  thou  art.     Thou  dost  inherit 
Our  father's  strength,  and  I  our  mother's  weakness  : 
The  softness  of  the  Oceanides, 
The  yielding  nature  that  cannot .  resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because  thou  wilt  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay;  because  I  cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert  thyself;  rise  up  to  thy  full  height; 
Shake  from  thy  soul  these  dreams  effeminate, 


36  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

These  passions  born  of  indolence  and  ease. 
Resolve,  and  thoii  art  free.     But  breathe  the  air 
Of  mountains,  and  their  unapproachable  summits 
Will  lift  thee  to  the  level  of  themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  roar  of  forests  and  of  waterfalls, 
The  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind,  with  loud 
And  undistiiiguishable  voices  calling, 
Are  in  my  ear! 

PROMETHEUS. 

0,  listen  and  obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  leadest  me  as  a  child.     I  follow  thee. 

They  go  out. 
CHORUS  OF  OREADES. 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains; 
Their  foreheads  wrinkled  and  rifted 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  37 

Helios  crowns  by  clay, 

Pallid  Selene  by  night; 

Prom  their  bosoms  uptossed 

The  snows  are  driven  and  drifted, 

Like  Tithonus'  beard 

Streaming  dishevelled  and  white. 

Thunder  and  tempest  of  wind 
Their  trumpets  blow  in  the  vastness; 
Phantoms  of  mist  and  rain, 
Cloud  and  the  shadow  of  cloud, 
Pass  and  repass  by  the  gates 
Of  their  inaccessible  fastness ; 
Ever  unmoved  they  stand, 
Solemn,  eternal,  and  proud. 

VOICES  OF  THE  WATERS. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow 
In  their  inexhaustible  sources, 
Swollen  by  affluent  streams 


.38  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

Hurrying  onward  and  hurled 
Headlong  over  the  crags, 
The  impetuous  water-courses,, 
Bush  and  roar  and  plunge 
Down  to  the  nethermost  world. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 
Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted, 
Flowing  over  the  plains, 
Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields  ? 
Or  have  the  mountains,  the  giants, 
The  ice-helmed,,  the  forest-belted, 
Scattered  their  arms  abroad  ; 
Flung  in  the  meadows  their  shields  ? 

VOICES  OP  THE  WINDS. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs 
That  bolts  of  thunder  have  shattered, 
Storm-winds  muster  and  blow 
Trumpets  of  terrible  breath; 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  39 

Then  from  the  gateways  rush, 
And  before  them  routed  and  scattered 
Sullen  the  cloud-rack  flies, 
Pale  with  the  pallor  of  death. 

Onward  the  hurricane  rides, 

And  flee  for  shelter  the  shepherds; 

White  are  the  frightened  leaves, 

Harvests  with  terror  are  white; 

Panic  seizes  the  herds, 

And  even  the  lions  and  leopards, 

Prowling  no  longer  for  prey, 

Crouch  in  their  caverns  with  fright. 

VOICES  OF  THE  FOREST. 

Guarding  the  mountains  around 
Majestic  the  forests  are  standing, 
Bright  are  their  crested  helms, 
Dark  is  their  armor  of  leaves ; 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  freedom 


40  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

Each  bosom  subsiding,  expanding, 
Now  like  the  ocean  sinks, 
Now  like  the  ocean  upheaves. 

Planted  firm  on  the  rock, 
With  foreheads  stern  and  defiant, 
Loud  they  shout  to  the  winds, 
Loud  to  the  tempest  they  call ; 
Naught  but  Olympian  thunders, 
That  blasted  Titan  and  Giant, 
Them  can  uproot  and  overthrow, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  their  fall. 

CHORUS  OF  OREADES. 

These  are  the  Yoices  Three 

Of  winds  and  forests  and  fountains, 

Voices  of  earth  and  of  air, 

Murmur  and  rushing  of  streams, 

Making  together  one  sound, 

The  mysterious  voice  of  the  mountains, 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  41 

Waking  the  sluggard  that  sleeps, 
Waking  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three, 
That  speak  of  endless  endeavor, 
Speak  of  endurance  and  strength, 
Triumph  and  fulness  of  fame, 
Sounding  about  the  world, 
An  inspiration  forever, 
Stirring  the  hearts  of  men, 
Shaping  their  end  and  their  aim. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


VII. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS. 

PANDORA. 

LEFT  to  myself  I  wander  as  I  will, 
And  as  my  fancy  leads  me,  through  this  house, 
Nor  could  I  ask  a  dwelling  more  complete 
Were  I  indeed  the  Goddess  that  he  deems  me. 
No  mansion  of  Olympus,  framed  to  be 
The  habitation  of  the  Immortal  Gods, 
Can  be  more  beautiful.     And  this  is  mine 
And  more  than  this,  the  love  wherewith  he  crowns 

me. 

As  if  impelled  by  powers  invisible 
And  irresistible,  my  steps  return 
Unto  this  spacious  hall.     All  corridors 
And  passages  lead  hither,  and  all  doors 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  43 

But  open  into  it.     Yon  mysterious  chest 
Attracts  and  fascinates  me.     Would  I  knew 
What  there  lies  hidden  !     But  the  oracle 
Forbids.     Ah  me  !     The  secret  then  is  safe. 
So  would  it  be  if  it  were  in  my  keeping. 
A  crowd  of  shadowy  faces  from  the  mirrors 
That  line  these  walls  are  watching  me.     I  dare  not 
Lift  up  the  lid.     A  hundred  times  the  act 
Would  be  repeated,  and  the  secret  seen 
By  twice  a  hundred  incorporeal  eyes. 

She  walks  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 

My  feet  are  weary,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
My  eyes  with  seeing  and  my  heart  with  waiting. 
I  will  lie  here  and  rest  till  he  returns, 
Who  is  my  dawn,  my  day,  my  Helios. 

Throws  herself  upon  a  couch,  and  falls  asleep. 
ZEPHYRUS. 

Come  from  thy  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
O  son  of  Erebus  and  Night ; 


44  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

All  sense  of  hearing  and  of  sight 
Enfold  in  the  serene  delight 
And  quietude  of  sleep  ! 

Set  all  thy  silent  sentinels 

* 

To  bar  and  guard  the  Ivory  Gate, 
And  keep  the  evil  dreams  of  fate 
And  falsehood  and  infernal  hate 
Imprisoned  in  their  cells. 

But  open  wide  the  Gate  of  Horn, 
Whence,  beautiful  as  planets,  rise 
The  dreams  of  truth,  with  starry  eyes, 
And  all  the  wondrous  prophecies 
And  visions  of  the  morn. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  IVORY  GATE. 

Ye  sentinels  of  sleep,. 
It  is  in  vain  ye  keep 
Your  drowsy  watch  before  the  Ivory  Gate; 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  45 

Though  closed  the  portal  seems, 
The  airy  feet  of  dreams 
Ye  cannot  thus  in  walls  incarcerate. 

We  phantoms  are  and  dreams 

Born  by  Tartarean  streams, 
As  ministers  of  the  infernal  powers ; 

O  son  of  Erebus 

And  Night,  behold !   we  thus 
Elude  your  watchful  wardens  on  the  towers ! 

From  gloomy  Tartarus 

The  Eates  have  summoned  us 
To  whisper  in  her  ear,  who  lies  asleep, 

A  tale  to  fan  the  fire 

Of  her  insane  desire 
To  know  a  secret  that  the  Gods  would  keep. 

This  passion,  in  their  ire, 
The  Gods  themselves  inspire, 


46  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

To  vex  mankind  with  evils  manifold, 
So  that  disease  and  pain 
O'er  the  whole  earth  may  reign,, 

And  nevermore  return  the  Age  of  Gold. 

PANDORA,  waking. 

A  voice  said  in  my  sleep :    "  Do  not  delay : 

Do  not  delay ;  the  golden  moments  fly  ! 

The  oracle  hath  forbidden ;    yet  not  thee 

Doth  it  forbid,  but  Epimetheus  only  !  " 

I  am  alone.     These  faces  in  the  mirrors 

Are  but  the  shadows  arid  phantoms  of  myself; 

They  cannot  help  nor  hinder.     No  one  sees  me, 

Save  the  all-seeing  Gods,  who,  knowing  good 

And  knowing  evil,  have  created  me 

Such  as  I  am,  and  filled  me  with  desire 

Of  knowing  good  and  evil  like  themselves. 

She  approaches  the  chest. 

I  hesitate  no  longer.     Weal  or  woe, 

Or  life  or  death,  the  moment  shall  decide. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS.  47 

She  lifts  the  licL  A  dense  mist  rises  from  the  chest,  and  fills 
the  room.  Pandora  falls  senseless  on  the  floor.  Storm 
without. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  GATE  OF    HORN. 

Yes,,  the  moment  shall  decide  ! 
It  already  hath  decided; 
And  the  secret  once  confided 
To  the  keeping  of  the  Titan 
Now  is  flying  far  and  wide, 
Whispered,  told  on  every  side, 
To  disquiet  and  to  frighten. 

Fever  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Sorrow,  pestilence,  and  pain, 
Moans  of  anguish,  maniac  laughter, 
All  the  evils  that  hereafter 
Shall  afflict  and  vex  mankind, 
All  into  the  air  have  risen 
Prom  the  chambers  of  their  prison  ; 
Only  Hope  remains  behind. 


48  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


VIII. 
IN  THE   GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

THE  storm  is  past,  but  it  hath  left  behind  it 

Ruin  and  desolation.     All  the  walks 

Are  strewn  with  shattered  boughs;  the  birds  are 

silent ; 
The     flowers,    downtrodden    by    the     wind,    lie 

dead ; 

The  swollen  rivulet  sobs  with  secret  pain; 
The  melancholy  reeds  whisper  together 
As  if  some  dreadful  deed  had  been  committed 
They  dare  not  name,  and  all  the  air  is  heavy 
With  an  unspoken  sorrow  !     Premonitions, 
Foreshadowings  of  some  terrible  disaster 
Oppress  my  heart.     Ye  Gods,  avert  the  omen  ! 


IAT  THE  GARDEN.  49 

PANDORA,  coming  from  the  house. 

0  Epimetheus,  I  no  longer  dare 

To  lift  mine  eyes  to  thine,  nor  hear  thy  voice, 

Being  no  longer  worthy  of  thy  love. 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive  me  not,  but  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

I  pray  for  death,  not  pardon. 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done? 

PANDORA. 

I  dare  not  speak  of  it. 


50  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

Thy  pallor  and  thy  silence  terrify  me ! 

PANDORA. 

I  have  brought  wrath  and  ruin  on  thy  house ! 
My  heart  hath  braved  the  oracle  that  guarded 
The  fatal  secret  from  us,  and  my  hand 
Lifted  the  lid  of  the  mysterious  chest ! 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

Then  all  is  lost !    I  am  indeed  undone. 

PANDORA. 

I  pray  for  punishment,  and  not  for  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine  is  the  fault,  not  thine.     On  me  shall  fall 
The  vengeance  of  the  Gods,  for  I  betrayed 
Their  secret  when,  in  evil  hour,  I  said 
It  was  a  secret;    when,  in  evil  hour, 
I  left  thee  here  alone  to  this  temptation. 
Why  did  I  leave  thee? 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  51 

PANDORA. 

Why  didst  thou  return  ? 
Eternal  absence  would  have  been  to  me 
The  greatest  punishment.     To  be  left  alone 
And  face  to  faca  with  my  own  crime,  had  been 
Just  retribution.     Upon  me,  ye  Gods, 
Let  all  your  vengeance  fall ! 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

On  thee  and  me. 

I  do  not  love  thee  less  for  what  is  done, 
And  cannot  be  undone.     Thy  very  weakness 
Hath  brought  thee  nearer  to  me,  and  henceforth 
My  love  will  have  a  sense  of  pity  in  it, 
Making  it  less  a  worship  than  before. 

PANDORA. 

Pity  me  not;   pity  is  degradation. 
Love  me  and  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  Pandora ! 
Thou  art  a  Goddess  still ! 


52  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

PANDORA. 

I  am  a  woman; 

And  the  insurgent  demon  in  my  nature, 
That  made  me  brave  the  oracle,  revolts 
At  pity  and  compassion.     Let  me  die; 
What  else  remains  for  me  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth,  hope,  and  love 
To  build  a  new  life  on  a  ruined  life, 
To  make  the  future  fairer  than  the  past, 
And  make  the  past  appear  a  troubled  dream. 
Even  now  in  passing  through  the  garden  walks 
Upon  the  ground  I  saw  a  fallen  nest 
Euined  and  full  of  rain;   and  over  me 
Beheld  the  uncomplaining  birds  already 
Busy  in  building  a  new  habitation. 

PANDORA. 
Auspicious  omen ! 


IN  THE  GARDEN.  53 

EPIMETIIEUS. 

May  the  Eumenides 

Put  out  their  torches  and  behold  us  not, 
And  fling  away  their  whips  of  scorpions 
And  touch  us  not. 

PANDORA. 

Me  let  them  punish. 

Only  through  punishment  of  our  evil  deeds, 
Only  through  suffering,  are  wre  reconciled 
To  the  immortal  Gods  and  to  ourselves. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDES. 

Never  shall  souls  like  these 

Escape  the  Eumenides, 
The  daughters  dark  of  Acheron  and  Night ! 

Unquenched  our  torches  glare, 

Our  scourges  in  the  air 
Send  forth  prophetic  sounds  before  they  smite. 


54  THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 

Never  by  lapse  of  time 

The  soul  defaced  by  crime 
Into  its  former  self  returns  again ; 

For  every  guilty  deed 

Holds  in  itself  the  seed 
Of  retribution  and  undying  pain. 

Never  shall  be  the  loss 

Restored,  till  Helios 
Hath  purified  them  with  his  heavenly  fires ; 

Then  what  was  lost  is  won, 

And  the  new  life  begun, 
Kindled  with  nobler  passions  and  desires. 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE, 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


i. 

THE  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the  guests 
That  thronging  came  with  merriment  and  jests 

To  celebrate  the  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
In  the  new  house,  —  into  the  night  are  gone; 
But  still  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  on, 
And  I  alone  remain. 


0  fortunate,  0  happy  day, 
When  a  new  household  finds  its  place 
Among  the  myriad  homes  of  earth, 
Like  a  new  star  just  sprung  to  birth, 
And  rolled  on  its  harmonious  Avay 
Into  the  boundless  realms  of  space ! 


58  THE  HANGING   OF  THE  CRANE. 

So  said  the  guests  in  speech  and  song, 
As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright, 
We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night, 
And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long. 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  59 


II. 


AND  now  I  sit  and  muse  on  what  may  be, 
And  in  my  vision  see,  or  seem  to  see, 

Through  floating  vapors  interfused  with  light, 
Shapes  indeterminate,  -that  gleam  and  fade, 
As  shadows  passing  into  deeper  shade 
Sink  and  elude  the  sight. 


For  two  alone,  there  in  the  hall, 

Is  spread  the  table  round  and  small; 

Upon  the  polished  silver  shine 

The  evening  lamps,  but,  more  divine, 

The  light  of  love  shines  over  all ; 

Of  love,  that  says  not  mine  and  thine, 

But  ours,  for  ours  is  thine  and  mine. 


60  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 

They  want  no  guests,  to  come  between 

Their  tender  glances  like  a  screen,, 

And  tell  them  tales  of  land  and  sea, 

And  whatsoever  may  betide 

The  great,  forgotten  world  outside; 

They  want  no  guests;  they  needs  must  be 

Each  other's  own  best  company. 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  61 


III. 


THE  picture  fades ;  as  at  a  village  fair 
A  showman's  views,  dissolving  into  air, 

Again  appear  transfigured  on  the  screen, 
So  in  my  fancy  this;  and  now  once  more, 
In  part  transfigured,  through  the  open  door 
Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 


Seated,  I  see  the  two  again, 

But  not  alone;  they  entertain 

A  little  angel  unaware, 

With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon; 

A  royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 

Who,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair, 

Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 


62  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 

Then  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor, 
To  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners?  these 

The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please  ? 

Ah  yes ;  consider  well  the  guest, 

And  whatsoe'er  he  does  seems  best; 

He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 

Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 

In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 

As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 

He  speaketh  not;  and  yet  there  lies 

A  conversation  in  his  eyes; 

The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 

The  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

Not  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 

More  legible  than  printed  books, 

As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 

And  now,  0  monarch  absolute, 

Thy  power  is  put  to  proof ;  for,  lo  ! 


THE   HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  63 

Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow, 
The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea, 
And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee, 
And  so  good  night  to  King  Canute. 


64  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


IV. 


As  one  who  walking  in  a  forest  sees 

A  lovely  landscape  through  the  parted  trees, 

Then  sees  it  not,  for  boughs  that  intervene;   • 
Or  as  we  see  the  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through  drifting  clouds,  and  then  again  concealed, 
So  I  behold  the  scene. 


There  are  two  guests  at  table  now; 
The  king,  deposed  and  older  grown, 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne, — 
The  crown  is  on  his  sister's  brow; 
A  Princess  from  the  Fairy  Isles, 
The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 
All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  65 

Bose-tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  soft,  silken  sails 
From  far-off  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue 
Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight; 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean's  rounded  verge, 
Soft-shining  through  the  summer  night. 
Steadfast  they  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
"With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


66  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


V. 


AGAIN  the  tossing  boughs  shut  out  the  scene, 
Again  the  drifting  vapors  intervene, 

And  the  moon's  pallid  disk  is  hidden  quite; 
Arid  now  I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 
As  round  a  pebble  into  water  thrown 
Dilates  a  ring  of  light. 


I  see  the  table  wider  grown, 

I  see  it  garlanded  with  guests, 

As  if  fair  Ariadne's  Crown 

Out  of  the  sky  had  fallen  down; 

Maidens  within  whose  tender  breasts 

A  thousand  restless  hopes  and  fears, 

Forth  reaching  to  the  coming  years, 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  67 

Flutter  awhile,  then  quiet  lie, 

Like  timid  birds  that  fain  would  fly, 

But  do  not  dare  to  leave  their  nests ;  — 

And  youths,  who  in  their  strength  elate 

Challenge  the  van  and  front  of  fate, 

Eager  as  champions  to  be 

In  the  divine  knight-errantry 

Of  youth,  that  travels  sea  and  land 

Seeking  adventures,  or  pursues, 

Through  cities,  and  through  solitudes 

Frequented  by  the'  lyric  Muse, 

The  phantom  with  the  beckoning  hand, 

That  still  allures  and  still  eludes. 

0  sweet  illusions  of  the  brain ! 

0  sudden  thrills  of  fire  and  frost ! 

The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain, 

And  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost  ! 


68  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


VI. 


THE  meadow-brook,  that  seemeth  to  stand  still, 
Quickens  its  current  as  it  nears  the  mill ; 

And  so  the  stream  of  Time  that  lingereth 
In  level  places,  and  so  dull  appears, 
Runs  with  a  swifter  current  as  it  nears 
The  gloomy  mills  of  Death. 


And  now,  like  the  magician's  scroll, 

That  in  the  owner's  keeping  shrinks 

With  every  wish  he  speaks  or  thinks, 

Till  the  last  wish  consumes  the  whole, 

The  table  dwindles,  and  again 

I  see  the  two  alone  remain. 

The  crown  of  stars  is  broken  in  parts ; 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  69 

Its  jewels,  brighter  than  the  day, 

Have  one  by  one  been  stolen  away 

To  shine  in  other  homes  and  hearts. 

One  is  a  wanderer  now  afar 

In  Ceylon  or  in  Zanzibar, 

Or  sunny  regions  of  Cathay; 

And  one  is  in  the  boisterous  camp 

Mid  clink  of  arms  and  horses'  tramp, 

And  battle's  terrible  array. 

I  see  the  patient  mother  read, 

"With  aching  heart,  of  wrecks  that  float 

Disabled  on  those  seas  remote, 

Or  of  some  great  heroic  deed 

On  battle-fields,  where  thousands  bleed 

To  lift  one  hero  into  fame. 

Anxious  she  bends  her  graceful  head 

Above  these  chronicles  of  pain, 

And  trembles  with  a  secret  dread 

Lest  there  among  the  drowned  or  slain 

She  find  the  one  beloved  name. 


70  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


VII. 


AFTER  a  day  of  cloud  and  wind  and  rain 
Sometimes  the  setting  sun  breaks  out  again, 

And,  touching  all  the  darksome  woods  with  light, 
Smiles  on  the  fields,  until  they  laugh  and  sing, 
Then  like  a  ruby  from  the  horizon's  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night. 


What  see  I  now?     The  night  is  fair, 
The  storm  of  grief,  the  clouds  of  care, 
The  wind,  the  rain,  have  passed  away ; 
The  lamps  are  lit,  the  fires  burn  bright, 
The  house  is  full  of  life  and  light : 
It  is  the  Golden  Wedding  day. 
The  guests  come  thronging  in  once  more, 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE.  71 

Quick  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor, 
The  trooping  children  crowd  the  stair, 
And  in  and  out  and  everywhere 
Flashes  along  the  corridor 
The  sunshine  of  their  golden  hair. 

On  the  round  table  in  the  hall 
Another  Ariadne's  Crown 
Out  of  the  sky  hath  fallen  down; 
More  than  one  Monarch  of  the  Moon 
Is  dramming  with  his  silver  spoon ; 
The  light  of  love  shines  over  all. 

0  fortunate,  0  happy  day ! 

The  people  sing,  the  people  say. 

The  ancient  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Smiling  contented  and  serene 

Upon  the  blithe,  beAvildering  scene, 

Behold,  well-pleased,  on  every  side 

Their  forms  and  features  multiplied, 


72  THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 

As  the  reflection  of  a  light 
Between  two  burnished  mirrors  gleams, 
Or  lamps  upon  a  bridge  at  night 
Stretch  on  and  on  before  the  sight, 
Till  the  long  vista  endless  seems. 


MOIUTURI    SALUTAMUS. 


POEM 

FOll    THE    FIFTIETH    ANNIVEKSAIIY    OF    THE    CLASS 
OF    1825    IN    BOWDOIN    COLLEGE. 


Tcmpora  labuntur,  tacilisque  scnescimus  annis, 
Et  fugiunt  frcno  nou  remorante  dies. 

OVID,  Fastorum  Lib.  vi. 


MORITURI    SALUTAMUS. 


"  0  CJESAR,  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you  !  "    was  the  gladiators'  cry 
In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 
"With  death  and  with  the  Eoman  populace. 

0  ye  familiar  scenes,  —  ye  groves  of  pine,    . 
That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer  mine,— 
Thou  river,  widening  through  the  meadows  green 
To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  unseen,  — • 
Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 
Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 
And  vanished,  —  we  who  are  about  to  die 
Salute  you;   earth  and  air  and  sea  and  sky, 


76  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters  down 
His  sovereign  splendors  upon  grove  and  town. 

Ye  do  not  answer  us  !  ye  do  not  hear  ! 
We  are  forgotten;   and  in  your  austere 
And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 
Whether  we  come  or  go,  or  whence  or  where. 
What  passing  generations  fill  these  halls, 
What  passing  voices  echo  from  these  walls, ' 
Ye  heed  not ;   we  are  only  as  the  blast, 
A  moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 

Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learning's  maze ; 

They  answer  us  —  alas  !  what  have  I  said  ? 

What  greetings  come  there  from  the  voiceless  dead  ? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply  ? 

What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  lifeless  lie  ? 

They  are  no  longer  here ;    they  all  are  gone 

Into  the  land  of  shadows,  —  all  save  one. 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  77 

Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 

His  dreadful  journey  to  the  realms  of  shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his  youth, 

And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth  : 

"O,  never  from  the  memory  of  my  heart 

Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 

"Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death  surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortalized; 

How  grateful  am  I  for  that  patient  care 

All  my  life  long  my  language  shall  declare." 

To-day  we  make  the  poet's  words  our  own, 
And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone ; 
Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 
But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 
Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 


78  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

Not  wrapped   in  gloom;  but  robed  in  sunshine 

liere ; 

"Whose  simple  lives,  complete  and  without  flaw,, 
Were  part  and  parcel  of  great  Nature's  law; 
Who  said  not  to  their  Lord,  as  if  afraid, 
"  Here  is  thy  talent  in  a  napkin  laid," 
But  labored  in  their  sphere,  as  men  who  live 
In  the  delight  that  work  alone  can  give. 
Peace  be  to  them ;   eternal  peace  and  rest, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  behest : 
"Ye  have  been  faithful  over  a  few  things, 
Over  ten  cities  shall  ye  reign  as  kings." 

And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled, 
And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 
Young  men,  whose  generous  hearts  are  beating 

high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you;  hail  you;  take  your  hands  in  ours, 
And  crown  you  with  our  welcome  as  with  flowers  ! 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  79 

How  beautiful  is  youth  !   how  bright  it  gleams 
With  its  illusions,,  aspirations,,  dreams ! 
Book  of  Beginnings,,  Story  without  End, 
Each  maid  a  heroine,  and  each  man  a  friend  ! 
Aladdin^  s  Lamp,,  and  Eortunatus'  Purse, 
That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe  ! 
All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 
No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  withstands; 
In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 
"  Be  thou  removed  !  "  it  to  the  mountain  saith, 
And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and  proud, 
Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the  cloud  ! 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Sceean  gate 

Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 

With  the  old  men,  too  old  and  weak  to  fight, 

Chirping  like  grasshoppers  in  their  delight 

To  see  the  embattled  hosts,  with  spear  and  shield, 

Of  Trojans  and  Achaians  in  the  field; 

So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 


80  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 
And  question  of  you ;  asking,  "  Who  is  he 
That  towers  above  the  others  ?    Which  may  be 
Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 
Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ?  " 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on 
As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 
Study  yourselves ;    and  most  of  all  note  well 
Wherein  kind  Nature  meant  you  to  excel. 
Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit ; 
Minerva,  the  inventress  of  the  flute, 
Flung  it  aside,  when  she  her  face  surveyed 
Distorted  in  a  fountain  as  she  played ; 
The  unlucky  Marsyas  found  it,  and  his  fate 
Was  one  to  make  the  bravest  hesitate. 

Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and  old, 
"  Be  bold  !  be  bold  !  "  and  everywhere  —  "  Be  bold; 
Be  not  too  bold ! "     Yet  bettef  the  excess 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  81 

Than  the  defect  j    better  the  more  than  less  ; 
Better  like  Hector  in  the  field  to  die, 
Than  like  a  perfumed  Paris  turn  and  fly. 

And  now,  my  classmates ;  ye  remaining  few 
That  number  not  the  half  of  those  we  knew, 
Ye,  against  whose  familiar  names  not  yet 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set, 
Ye  I  salute  !     The  horologe  of  Time 
Strikes  the  half-century  with  a  solemn  chime, 
And  summons  us  together  once  again, 
The  joy  of  meeting  not  unmixed  with  "pain. 

Where  are  the  others  ?     Yoices  from  the  deep 
Caverns  of  darkness  answer  me  :  "  They  sleep  !  " 
I  name  no  names;  instinctively  I  feel 
Each  at  some  well-remembered  grave  will  kneel, 
And  from   the   inscription  wipe   the  weeds   and 

moss, 
For  every  heart  best  knoweth  its  own  loss. 

4*  P 


82  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

I  see  their  scattered  gravestones  gleaming  white 
Through  the  pale  dusk  of  the  impending  night; 
O'er  all  alike  the  impartial  sunset  throws 
Its  golden  lilies  mingled  with  the  rose  • 
We  give  to  each  a  tender  thought,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  graveyards  with  their  tangled  grass, 
Unto  these  scenes  frequented  by  our  feet 
When  we  were   young,   and   life  was    fresh    and 
sweet. 

What  shall  I  say  to  you?     What  can  I  say 
Better  than  silence  is  ?     When  I  survey 
This  throng  of  faces  turned  to  meet  my  own,, 
Friendly  and  fair,  and  yet  to  me  unknown, 
Transformed  the  very  landscape  seems  to  be; 
It  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  to  me. 
So  many  memories  crowd  upon  my  brain, 
So  many  ghosts  are  in  the  wooded  plain, 
I  fain  would  steal  away,  with  noiseless  tread, 
As  from  a  house  where  some  one  lieth  dead. 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  83 

I  cannot  go  ;  —  I  pause ;  —  I  hesitate  ; 
My  feet  reluctant  linger  at  the  gate; 
As  one  who  struggles  in  a  troubled  dream 
To  speak  and  cannot,  to  myself  I  seem. 

Yanish  the  dream  !     Yanish  the  idle  fears  ! 

Yanish  the  rolling  mists  of  fifty  years  ! 

Whatever  time  or  space  may  intervene, 

I  will  not  be  a  stranger  in  this  scene. 

Here  every  doubt,  all  indecision  ends; 

Hail,  my  companions,  comrades,  classmates,  friends ! 

Ah  me  !  the  fifty  years  since  last  we  met 
Seem  to  me  fifty  folios  bound  and  set 
By  Time,  the  great  transcriber,  on  his  shelves, 
Wherein  are  written  the  histories  of  ourselves. 
What  tragedies,  what  comedies,  are  there ; 
What  joy  and  grief,  what  rapture  and  despair  ! 
What  chronicles  of  triumph  and  defeat, 
Of  struggle,  and  temptation,  and  retreat ! 


84  MORITUBI  SALUTAMUS. 

What  records  of  regrets,,  and  doubts,  and  fears  ! 
"What  pages  blotted,  blistered  by  our  tears ! 
What  lovely  landscapes  on  the  margin  shine, 
What  sweet,  angelic  faces,  what  divine 
And  holy  images  of  love  and  trust, 
Undimmed  by  age,  unsoiled  by  damp  or  dust ! 

Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  explore 
These  volumes,  closed  and  clasped  forevermore  ? 
Not  mine.     Witli  reverential  feet  I  pass ; 
I  hear  a  voice  that  cries,  "  Alas  !  alas  ! 
Whatever  hath  been  written  shall  remain, 
Nor  be  erased  nor  wrritten  o'er  again  ; 
The  unwritten  only  still  belongs  to  thee : 
Take  heed,  and  ponder  well  what  that  shall  be." 

As  children  frightened  by  a  thunder- cloud 
Are  reassured  if  some  one  reads  aloud 
A  tale  of  wonder,  witli  enchantment  fraught, 
Or  wild  adventure,  that  diverts  their  thought, 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  85 

Let  me  endeavor  with  a  tale  to  chase 
The  gathering  shadows  of  the  time  and  place, 
And  banish  what  we  all  too  deeply  feel 
Wholly  to  say,  or  wholly  to  conceal. 

In  mediaeval  Rome,  I  know  not  where, 
There  stood  an  image  with  its  arm  in  air, 
And  on  its  lifted  finger,  shining  clear, 
A  golden  ring  with  the  device,  "  Strike  here  ! " 
Greatly  the  people  wondered,  though  none  guessed 
The  meaning  that  these  words  but  half  expressed, 
Until  a  learned  clerk,  who  at  noonday 
With  downcast  eyes  was  passing  on  his  way, 
Paused,  and   observed  the   spot,  and  marked  it 

well, 

Whereon  the  shadow  of  the  finger  fell; 
And,  coming  back  at  midnight,  delved,  and  found 
A  secret  stairway  leading  under  ground. 
Down  this  he  passed  into  a  spacious  hall, 
Lit  by  a  naming  jewel  on  the  wall; 


86  MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

And  opposite  in  threatening  attitude 

With  bow  and  shaft  a  brazen  statue  stood. 

Upon  its  forehead,,  like  a  coronet, 

Were  these  mysterious  words  of  menace  set : 

"That  which  I  am,  I  am ;  my  fatal  aim 

None  can  escape,  not  even  yon  luminous  flame  !  " 

Midway  the  hall  was.  a  fair  table  placed, 
With  cloth  of  gold,  and  golden  cups  enchased 
With  rubies,  and  the  plates  and  knives  were  gold, 
And  gold  the  bread  and  viands  manifold. 
Around  it,  silent,  motionless,  and  sad, 
Were  seated  gallant  knights  in  armor  clad, 
And  ladies  beautiful  with  plume  and  zone, 
But  they  were  stone,  their  hearts  within  were  stone; 
And  the  vast  hall  was  filled  in  every  part 
With  silent  crowds,  stony  in  face  and  heart. 

Long  at  the  scene,  bewildered  and  amazed 
The  trembling  clerk  in  speechless  wonder  gazed; 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  87 

Then  from  the  table,,  by  his  greed  made  bold, 

He  seized  a  goblet  and  a  knife  of  gold,, 

And   suddenly  from   their   seats   the   guests   up- 

sprang, 

The  vaulted  ceiling  with  loud  clamors  rang, 
The  archer  sped  his  arrow,  at  their  call. 
Shattering  the  lambent  jewel  on  the  wall, 
And  all  was  dark  around  and  overhead ;  — 
Stark  on  the  floor  the  luckless  clerk  lay  dead ! 

The  writer  of  this  legend  then  records 

Its  ghostly  application  in  these  words  : 

The  image  is  the  Adversary  old, 

Whose  beckoning  finger  points  to  realms  of  gold ; 

Our  lusts  and  passions  are  the  downward  stair 

That  leads  the  soul  from  a  diviner  air ; 

The  archer,  Death ;  the  flaming  jewel,  Life ; 

Terrestrial  goods,  the  goblet  and  the  knife ; 

The  knights  and  ladies,  all  whose  flesh  and  bone 

By  avarice  have  been  hardened  into  stone; 


88  MORITUm  SALUTAMUS. 

The  clerk,  the  scholar  whom  the  love  of  pelf 
Tempts    from    his   books    and    from    his   nobler 
self. 

The  scholar  and  the  world !     The  endless  strife, 

The  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  life  ! 

The  love  of  learning,  the  sequestered  nooks, 

And  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  books ; 

The  market-place,  the  eager  love  of  gain, 

Whose  aim  is  vanity,  and  wrhose  end  is  pain  ! 

But  why,  you  ask  me,  should  this  tale  be  told 
To  men  grown  old,  or  who  are  growing  old  ? 
It  is  too  late !     Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpitate. 
Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty;    Sophocles 
Wrote  his  grand  CEdipus,  and  Simonides 
Bore  off  the  prize  of  verse  from  his  compeers, 
When  each  had  numbered  more  than   fourscore 
years, 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  .  89 

And  Theophrastus,  at  fourscore  and  ten, 
Had  but  begun  his  Characters  of  Men. 
Chaucer,  at  Woodstock  with  the  nightingales, 
At  sixty  wrote  the  Canterbury  Tales ; 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  toiling  to  the  last, 
Completed  Faust  when  eighty  years  were  past. 
These  are  indeed  exceptions;   but  they  show 
How  far  the  gulf-stream  of  our  youth  may  flow 
Into  the  arctic  regions  of  our  lives, 
Where  little  else  than  life  itself  survives. 

As  the  barometer  foretells  the  storm 
While  still  the  skies  are  clear,  the  weather  warm, 
So  something  in  us,  as  old  age  draws  near, 
Betrays  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere. 
The  nimble  mercury,  ere  we  are  aware, 
Descends  the  elastic  ladder  of  the  air ; 
The  telltale  blood  in  artery  and  vein 
Sinks  from  its  higher  levels  in  the  brain; 
Whatever  poet,  orator,  or  sage 


90  MORITUEI  SALUTAMUS. 

May  say  of  it,  old  age  is  still  old  age. 
It  is  the  waning,,  not  the  crescent  moon,, 
The  dusk  of  evening,  not  the  blaze  of  noon  : 
It  is  not  strength,  but  weakness;   not  desire, 
But  its  surcease;   not  the  fierce  heat  of  fire, 
The  burning  and  consuming  element, 
But  that  of  ashes  and  of  embers  spent, 
In  which  some  living  sparks  we  still  discern, 
Enough  to  warm,  but  not  enough  to  burn. 

What  then?     Shall  we  sit  idly  down  and  say 
The  night  hath  come ;  it  is  no  longer  day  ? 
The  night  hath  not  yet  come;  we  are  not  quite 
Cut  off  from  labor  by  the  failing  light; 
Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear; 
Not  (Edipus  Coloneus,  or  Greek  Ode, 
Or  tales  of  pilgrims  that  one  morning  rode 
Out  of  the  gateway  of  the  Tabard  Inn, 
But  other  something,  would  we  but  begin; 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  91 

For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 
Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  dress, 
And  as  the  evening  twilight  fades  away 
The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by  day. 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 


CHAELES   SUMNEE. 

GARLANDS  upon  his  grave, 
And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 
The  conflict  and  the  pain, 
The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
The  honor  without  stain. 

Like  Winkelried,  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A  path  for  the  oppressed. 


96  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a  nations  heart 
Borne  like  a  warrior  on  his  shield ! 
So  should'  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise, 
And  stays  our  hurrying  feet; 
The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 
Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 
Even  as  a  bridged  arch  of   stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 
When  life  in  death  survives, 
And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a  thousand  lives. 


CHARLES  SUMNER.  97 

Were  a  star  quenched  on  high, 
For  ages  would  its  light, 
Still  travelling  downward  from  the  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

So  when  a  great  man  dies, 
For  years  beyond  our  ken, 
The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


TRAVELS   BY   THE   FIRESIDE. 

THE  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  gilded  vane, 
Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself 

And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 
To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 

And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I  read  whatever  bards  have  sung 

Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  bright  days  when  I  was  young 

Come  thronging  back  to  me. 


TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRES  WE.  99 

In  fancy  I  can  hear  again 

The  Alpine  torrent's  roar, 
The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 

The  sea  at  Elsinore. 


I  see  the  convent's  gleaming  wall 
Kise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 
And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I  journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 

Beneath  centennial  trees, 
Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 

And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I  fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I  feel  fatigue, 
While  journeying  with  another's  feet 

O'er  many  a  lengthening  league. 


100  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 
And  toil  through  various  climes,, 

I  turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Beading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I  learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


CADENABBIA 

LAKE  OF  COMO. 

No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 

As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 
Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade 

Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  overhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 


102  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 

And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 

Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
BeUaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 


CADENABBIA.  103 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Yarenna  with  its  white  cascade. 


I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  !     Do  not  fade  away ; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 

And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 


MONTE   CASSINO 

TEllRA  Dl  LA\ORO. 

BEAUTIFUL  valley !  through  whose  verdant  meads 
Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along ;  — 

The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds. 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 

Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his  throne; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiff's  only,  or  in  part  thine  own? 


MONTE  CASSINO.  105 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 

Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith, 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  betrayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid  light 

Still  hovers  o'er  his  birthplace  like  the  crown 
Of  splendor  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 

Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a  school-boy  played, 

And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that  he  repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a  mountain  summit  high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 


106  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate ; 

Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 

The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace  wide, 

From  which  far  down  the  valley,  like  a  park 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  descried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 
Caressed  the  mountain  tops ;  the  vales  between 

Darkened;  the  river  in  the  meadow-lands 

Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed;  each  passing  tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 


MONTE  CASSINO.  107 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Home, 

A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a  home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Eule 
Of  prayer  and  work,  and  counted  work  as  prayer ; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a  beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 

"What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way, 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 
Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best  ! 

This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 
Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 


108  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Upon  sucli  themes  as  these,  with  one  young  friar 
I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night,, 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 
Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay  ; 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep ;  already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 
On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed, — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 
Of  the  bright  sun,  —  and  stood  as  one  amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing; 

The   woodlands   glistened   with   their    jewelled 

crowns ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 


MONTE  CASSINO.  109 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 

While  this  world  and  the  next  world  were  at 
strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 

Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 
And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 


AMALFI. 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 

Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees 

Sits  Amain  in  -the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 

In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 

Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 

The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 

Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 


AMALFI.  Ill 

'T  is  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  Avails  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  np  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear ; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  giin, 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 

Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast? 

Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court? 

Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 

Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 

And  their  gallant  brigan^ines 

Sailing  safely  into  port 

Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 


AMALFI. 

And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd  ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies  : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves  ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land ! 
Bound  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Psestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonelv  land  of  doom. 


114  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 


AMALFI.  115 

And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  rne 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 


THE   SERMON   OF   ST.   FKANCIS. 

UP  soared-  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain, 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard ;  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim  ; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assists  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.    FRANCIS.  117 

"0  brother  birds/'  St.  Francis  said, 
"  Ye  corne  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words  ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

"  0,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 

The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 

Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

"  He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  !  " 


118  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs,, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis''  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


BELISAEIUS. 

I  AM  poor  and  old  and  blind; 
The  sun  burns  me,  and  the  wind 

Blows  through  the  city  gate 
And  covers  me  with  dust 
From  the  wheels  of  the  august 

Justinian  the  Great. 

It  was  for  him  I  chased 

The  Persians  o'er  wild  and  waste, 

As  General  of  the  East ; 
Night  after  night  I  lay 
In  their  camps  of  yesterday; 

Their  forage  was  my  feast. 


120  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

For  him,  with  sails  of  red, 
And  torches  at  mast-head, 

Piloting  the  great  fleet, 
I  swept  the  Afric  coasts 
And  scattered  the  Vandal  hosts, 

Like  dust  in  a  windy  street. 

For  him  I  won  again 

The  Ausonian  realm  and  reign, 

Eome  and  Parthenope ; 
And  all  the  land  was  mine 
From  the  summits  of  Apennine 

To  the  shores  of  either  sea. 

For  him,  in  my  feeble  age, 
I  dared  the  battle's  rage, 

To  save  Byzantium's  state, 
When  the  tents  of  Zabergan, 
Like  snow-drifts  overran 

The  road  to  the  Golden  Gate. 


BELISARIUS.  121 

And  for  this,  for  this,  behold ! 
Infirm  and  blind  and  old, 

With  gray,  uncovered  head, 
Beneath  the  very  arch 
Of  my  triumphal  march, 

I  stand  and  beg  my  bread  ! 

Methinks  I  still  can  hear, 
Sounding  distinct  and  near, 

The  Vandal  monarch's  cry, 
As,  captive  and  disgraced, 
"With  majestic  step  he  paced,  — 

"  All,  all  is  Vanity  !  " 

Ah!  vainest  of  all  things 
Is  the  gratitude  of  kings; 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
Are  but  the  clatter  of  feet 
At  midnight  in  the  street, 

Hollow  and  restless  and  loud. 

6 


122  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

But  the  bitterest  disgrace 
Is  to  see  forever  the  face 

Of  the  Monk  of  Ephesus 
The  unconquerable  will 
This,  too,  can  bear ;  —  I  still 

Am  Belisarius  ! 


SONGO  RIVER. 

NOWHERE  such  a  devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 
Winding  slow  through  bush  and  brake 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  flow. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 
Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 
Such  a  winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 


124  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Never  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest,, 
Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
"Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 


In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing,, 
Or  the  loon,,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream !  thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame; 
For  thou  hidest  here  alone, 
Well  content  to  be  unknown. 


SONGO  RIVER.  125 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech. 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 
Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way :  — 

"  Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet ! 
Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste ! 

"  Be  not  like  a  stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 
But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  soul." 


A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


THREE   FRIENDS   OF   MINE. 

I. 

WHEN  I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine. 
Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 
Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends  to  me, 
And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous  wine, 

I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 

Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made  us  see 
The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 
The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 

In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their  hands ; 
I  cannot  find  them.     Nothing  now  is  left 
But  a  majestic  memory.     They  meanwhile 

Wander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Perchance   remembering  me,  who  am  bereft 
Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remembering,  smile. 


130  A  B°OK  OF  SONNETS. 


II. 

IN  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhelene  ! 

Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic  bees ; 
Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 

For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic  breath; 
Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold ! 

0,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with  thee, 
That  thou   shouldst   die   before   thou   hadst 
grown  old  ! 


THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE.  131 


III. 

I  STAND  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 

The  rocks,  the  sea-weed  on  the  ocean  floor, 
The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
"Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me ; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no 
more  ? 

Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  common  men 
Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding?  Why,  when  thou  hadst  read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Why  shouldst  thou  be 
dead  ? 


BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


IV. 

RIVER,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,,  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom  these 

eyes 
Shall  see  no  more  in  his  accustomed  place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace 

And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western  skies 
Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's  face. 

Good  night !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have  said 
Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  return. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bed; 
I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE.  133 


V. 

THE  doors  are  all  wide  open;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air;  a  dream}7  haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a  fate, 

And  on  their  margin,,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier  days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and  stays 
His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 

I  also  wait;  but  they  will  come  no  more, 
Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah  me ! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my  door ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 


A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


CHAUCEE. 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.     He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 

Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the 

dark 

Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound; 
He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 

He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song;  and  as  I  read 

I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Eise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead. 


SHAKESPEARE.  135 


SHAKESPEAEE. 

A  VISION  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares;  trumpets  that  blow 
To  battle;  clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 

Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored  fleets  ; 
Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of  children,  and  bright  flowers  that  throw 
O'er  garden-walls  their  intermingled  sweets ! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  when  I  unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom  all  the  Muses  loved,  not  one  alone; — • 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 

And,  crowned  with  sacred  laurel  at  their  fount, 
Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their  throne. 


1;36  A   BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


MILTON. 

I  PACE  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  behold 
How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and  run, 
Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the  sun 
Shines  through  their  sheeted  emerald   far  un 
rolled, 

And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering  fold  by  fold 
All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into  one, 
Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods  the  dun 
Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes  them  to  gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
O  sightless  bard,  England's  Mseonides ! 

And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 

Uplifted,  a  ninth  wave  superb  and  strong, 
Floods  all  the  soul  with  its  melodious  seas. 


KEATS.  137 


KEATS. 

THE  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion's  sleep ; 
The  shepherd-boy  whose  tale  was  left  half  told  ! 
The  solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of  gold 
To  the  red  rising  moon,  and  loud  and  deep 

The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep; 
It  is  midsummer,,  but  the  air  is  cold; 
Can  it  be  death  ?     Alas,  beside  the  fold 
A  shepherd's  pipe  lies  shattered  near  his  sheep. 

Lo !  in  the  moonlight  gleams  a  marble  white, 
On  which  I  read  :  "  Here  lieth  one  whose  name 
Was  writ  in  water/'     And  was  this  the  meed 

Of  his  sweet  singing  ?    Rather  let  me  write : 
"The  smoking  flax  before  it  burst  to  flame 
Was  quenched  by  death,  and  broken  the  bruised 
reed." 


138  -4  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


THE   GALAXY. 

TORRENT  of  light  and  river  of  the  air, 

Along  whose  bed  the  glimmering  stars  are  seen 
Like  gold  and  silver  sands  in  some  ravine 
Where  mountain  streams  have  left  their  chan 
nels  bare ! 

The  Spaniard  sees  in  thee  the  pathway,  where 
His  patron  saint  descended  in  the  sheen 
Of  his  celestial  armor,  on  serene 
And  quiet  nights,  when  all  the  heavens  were  fair. 

Not  this  I  see,  nor  yet  the  ancient  fable 

Of  Phaeton's  wild  course,  that  scorched  the  skies 
Where'er  the  hoofs  of  his  hot  coursers  trod; 

But  the  white  drift  of  worlds  o'er  chasms  of  sable, 
The  star-dust,  that  is  whirled  aloft  and  flies 
From  the  invisible  chariot- wheels  of  God. 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA.  139 


THE   SOUND   OF   THE   SEA. 

THE  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep; 

A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 

So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul; 

And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 

Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foreseeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 


140  A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


A   SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE   SEA. 

THE  sun  is  set ;  and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled, 
The  falling  mantle  of  the  Prophet  seems. 

From  the  dim  headlands  many  a  lighthouse  gleams, 
The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean ;  and  behold, 
Overhead  the  banners  of  the  night  unfold; 
The  day  hath  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams, 

O  summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea  ! 
O  summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 
So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain  ! 

Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a  dead  delight, 
To  some  the  landmark  of  a  new  domain. 


SEA-TIDES.  141 


THE  TIDES. 

I  SAW  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 
The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon  the  sand, 
And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every  hand, 
As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no  more. 

Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than  before, 
The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast  expand, 
And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenceless  land 
The  insurgent  waters  with  tumultuous  roar. 

All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I  said, 
Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant  joy  of  song 
Have  ebbed  from  me  forever  !     Suddenly  o'er 
me 

They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean  bed, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 
As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  upbore  me. 


142  A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


A  SHADOW. 

I  SAID  unto  myself,  if  I  were  dead, 

What  would  befall  these  children  ?   What  would 

be 

Their  fate,  who  now  are  looking  up  to  me 
For  help  and  furtherance?    Their  lives,  I  said, 

Would  be  a  volume  wherein  I  have  read 
But  the  first  chapters,  and  no  longer  see 
To  read  the  rest  of  their  dear  history, 
So  full  of  beauty  and  so  full  of  dread. 

Be  comforted;  the  world  is  very  old, 

And  generations  pass,  as  they  have  passed, 
A  troop  of  shadows  moving  with  the  sun; 

Thousands  of  times  has  the  old  tale  been  told ; 
The  world  belongs  to  those  who  come  the  last, 
They  will  find  hope  and  strength  as  we  have 
done. 


A  NAMELESS   GRAVE.  143 


A  NAMELESS   GRAVE. 

"  A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless;  sentinel  or  scout 

Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of  brave 
And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  redoubt. 

Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave !  with  secret  shame 
I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 

When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 
All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very  name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 


144  A  BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


SLEEP. 

LULL  me  to  sleep,,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful  sound 
Seems  from  some  faint  ^Eolian  harpstring  caught; 
Seal  up  the  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  thought 
As  Hermes  with  his  lyre  in  sleep  profound 

The  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  Argus  bound ; 
For  I  am  weary,  and  am  overwrought 
With  too  much  toil,  with  too  much  care  dis 
traught, 
And  with  the  iron  crown  of  anguish  crowned. 

Lay  thy  soft  hand  upon  my  brow  and  cheek, 

0  peaceful  Sleep  !  until  from  pain  released 

1  breathe  again  uninterrupted  breath  ! 

Ah,  with  what  subtile  meaning  did  the  Greek 
Call  thee  the  lesser  mystery  at  the  feast 
Whereof  the  greater  mystery  is  death  ! 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE.  145 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE. 

TADDEO  GADDI  built  me.     I  am  old, 

Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 
Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by  fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its  glistening  scales.     Twice  hath  it  overthroAvn 
My  kindred  and  companions.     Me  alone 
It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence ;  longer  still  ago 
The  final  wars  •  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry ; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 


146  1L  PONTE   VECCH10  DI  FIRENZE. 

IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIEENZE. 

GADDI  mi  fece;  il  Ponte  Veccliio  sono; 
Cinquecenf  anni  gia  sulP  Arno  pianto 
II  piede,  come  il  suo  Michele  Santo 
Piantb  sul  draco.     Mentre  clr*  io  ragiono 

Lo  vedo  torcere  con  flebil  suono 

Le  rilucenti  scaglie.     Ha  questi  affranto 
Due  volte  i  miei  maggior.     Me  solo  intanto 
Neppure  muove,  ed  io  non  I'  abbandono. 

Io  mi  rammento  quando  fur  cacciati 
I  Medici;  pur  quando  Gliibellino 
E  Guelfo  fecer  pace  mi  rammento. 

Fiorenza  i  suoi  giojelli  m^  ha  prestati; 
E  quando  penso  ch''  Agnolo  il  divino 
Su  me  posava,  insuperbir  mi  sento. 


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FE8  21   1934 


MAY  2  1942 


AW  24  1947 


303051 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


